Not many days ago I saw at breakfast the notablest of all your
notabilities, Daniel Webster. He is a magnificent specimen. You
might say to all the world, "This is our Yankee-Englishman; such
links we make in Yankeeland!" As a logic fencer, advocate or
Parliamentary Hercules, one would incline to back him at first
sight against all the extant world. The tanned complexion; the
amorphous, craglike face; the dull black eyes under the precipice
of brows, like dull anthracite furnaces needing only to be blown;
the mastiff mouth accurately closed; I have not traced so much of
silent Berserker rage that I remember of in any other man. "I
guess I should not like to be your nigger!"
--Carlyle to Emerson
[Illustration: DANIEL WEBSTER]
Those were splendid days, tinged with no trace of blue, when I attended
the district school, wearing trousers buttoned to a calico waist. I had
ambitions then--I was sure that some day I could spell down the school,
propound a problem in fractions that would puzzle the teacher, and play
checkers in a way that would cause my name to be known throughout the
entire township.
In the midst of these pleasant emotions, a cloud appeared upon the horizon
of my happiness. What was it? A Friday Afternoon, that's all.
A new teacher had been engaged--a woman, actually a young woman. It was
prophesied that she could not keep order a single day, for the term
before, the big boys had once arisen and put out of the building the man
who taught them. Then there was a boy who occasionally brought a dog to
school; and when the bell rang, the dog followed the boy into the room and
lay under the desk pounding his tail on the floor; and everybody tittered
and giggled until the boy had been coaxed into taking the dog home, for if
merely left in the entry he howled and whined in a way that made study
impossible. But one day the boy was not to be coaxed, and the teacher
grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck, and flung him through a window
so forcibly that he never came back. And now a woman was to teach the
school: she was only a little woman and yet the boys obeyed her, and I had
come to think that a woman could teach school nearly as well as a man,
when the awful announcement was made that thereafter every week we were to
have a Friday Afternoon. There were to be no lessons; everybody was to
speak a piece, and then there was to be a spelling-match--and that was
all. But heavens! it was enough.
Monday began very blue and gloomy, and the density increased as the week
passed. My mother had drilled me well in my lines, and my big sister was
lavish in her praise, but the awful ordeal of standing up before the whole
school was yet to come.
Thursday night I slept but little, and all Friday morning I was in a
burning fever. At noon I could not eat my lunch, but I tried to, manfully,
and as I munched on the tasteless morsels, salt tears rained on the
johnnycake I held in my hand. And even when the girls brought in big
bunches of wild flowers and cornstalks, and began to decorate the
platform, things appeared no brighter.
Finally, the teacher went to the door and rang the bell: nobody seemed to
play, and as the scholars took their seats, some, very pale, tried to
smile, and others whispered, "Have you got your piece?" Still others kept
their lips working, repeating lines that struggled hard to flee.
Names were called, but I did not see who went up, neither did I hear what
was said. At last, my name was called: it came like a clap of thunder--as
a great surprise, a shock. I clutched the desk, struggled to my feet,
passed down the aisle, the sound of my shoes echoing through the silence
like the strokes of a maul. The blood seemed ready to burst from my eyes,
ears and nose.
I reached the platform, missed my footing, stumbled, and nearly fell. I
heard the giggling that followed, and knew that a red-haired boy, who had
just spoken, and was therefore unnecessarily jubilant, had laughed aloud.
I was angry. I shut my fists so that the nails cut my flesh, and glaring
straight at his red head shot my bolt: "I know not how others may feel,
but sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my heart and my
hand to this vote. It is my living sentiment and by the blessing of God it
shall be my dying sentiment. Independence now, and independence forever."
That was all of the piece. I gave the whole thing in a mouthful, and
started for my seat, got halfway there and remembered I had forgotten to
bow, turned, went back to the platform, bowed with a jerk, started again
for my seat, and hearing some one laugh, ran.
Reaching the seat, I burst into tears.
The teacher came over, patted my head, kissed my cheek, and told me I had
done first-rate, and after hearing several others speak I calmed down and
quite agreed with her.
* * * * *
It was Daniel Webster who caused the Friday Afternoon to become an
institution in the schools of America. His early struggles were dwelt upon
and rehearsed by parents and pedagogues until every boy was looked upon as
a possible Demosthenes holding senates in thrall.
If physical imperfections were noticeable, the fond mother would explain
that Demosthenes was a sickly, ill-formed youth, who only overcame a lisp
by orating to the sea with his mouth full of pebbles; and every one knew
that Webster was educated only because he was too weak to work. Oratory
was in the air; elocution was rampant; and to declaim in orotund, and
gesticulate in curves, was regarded as the chief end of man. One-tenth of
the time in all public schools was given over to speaking, and on Saturday
evenings the schoolhouse was sacred to the Debating Society.
Then came the Lyceum, and the orators of the land made pilgrimages,
stopping one day in a place, putting themselves on exhibition, and giving
the people a taste of their quality at fifty cents per head. Recently,
there has been a relapse of the oratorical fever. Every city from
Leadville to Boston has its College of Oratory, or School of Expression,
wherein a newly discovered "Natural Method" is divulged for a
consideration. Some of these "Colleges" have done much good; one in
particular I know, that fosters a fine spirit of sympathy, and a trace of
mysticism that is well in these hurrying, scurrying days.
But all combined have never produced an orator; no, dearie, they never
have, and never can. You might as well have a school for poets, or a
college for saints, or give medals for proficiency in the gentle art of
wooing, as to expect to make an orator by telling how.
Once upon a day, Sir Walter Besant was to give a lecture upon "The Art of
the Novelist." He had just adjusted his necktie for the last time, slipped
a lozenge into his mouth, and was about to appear upon the platform, when
he felt a tug at the tail of his dress-coat. On looking around, he saw the
anxious face of his friend, James Payn. "For God's sake, Walter,"
whispered Payn, "you are not going to explain to 'em how you do it, are
you?" But Walter did not explain how to write fiction, because he could
not, and Payn's quizzing question happily relieved the lecture of the
bumptiousness it might otherwise have contained.
The first culture for which a people reach out is oratory. The Indian is
an orator with "the natural method"; he takes the stump on small
provocation, and under the spell of the faces that look up to him, is
often moved to strange eloquence. I have heard negro preachers who could
neither read nor write, move vast congregations to profoundest emotion by
the magic of their words and presence. And further, they proved to me that
the ability to read and write is a cheap accomplishment, and that a man
can be a very strong character, and not know how to do either.
For the most part, people who live in cities are not moved by oratory;
they are unsocial, unimaginative, unemotional. They see so much and hear
so much that they cease to be impressed. When they come together in
assemblages they are so apathetic that they fail to generate
magnetism--there is no common soul to which the speaker can address
himself. They are so cold that the orator never welds them into a mass. He
may amuse them, but in a single hour to change the opinions of a lifetime
is no longer possible in America. There are so many people, and so much
business to transact, that emotional life plays only upon the surface--in
it there is no depth. To possess depth you must commune with the Silences.
No more do you find men and women coming for fifty miles, in wagons, to
hear speakers discuss political issues; no more do you find campmeetings
where the preacher strikes conviction home until thousands are on their
knees crying to God for mercy.
Intelligence has increased; spirituality has declined, and as a people the
warm emotions of our hearts are gone forever.
Oratory is a rustic product. The great orators have always been
country-bred, and their appeal has been made to rural people. Those who
live in a big place think they are bigger on that account. They acquire
glibness of speech and polish of manner; but they purchase these things at
a price. They lack the power to weigh mighty questions, the courage to
formulate them, and the sturdy vitality to stand up and declare them in
the face of opposition. Revolutions are fought by farmers and
rail-splitters; these are the embattled men who fire the shots heard
'round the world.
When Daniel Webster's father took up his residence in New Hampshire, his
log cabin was the most northern one of the Colonies. Between him and
Montreal lay an unbroken forest inhabited only by prowling Indians.
Ebenezer Webster's long rifle had sent cold lead into many a redskin; and
the same rifle had done good service in fighting the British. Once, its
owner stood guard before Washington's Headquarters at Newburgh, and
Washington came out and said, "Captain Webster, I can trust you!"
Ebenezer Webster would leave his home to carry a bag of corn on his back
through the woods to the mill ten miles away to have it ground into meal,
and his wife would be left alone with the children. On such occasions,
Indians who never saw settlers' cabins without having an itch to burn
them, used sometimes to call, and the housewife would have to parley with
these savages, "impressing them concerning the rights of property."
So here was born Daniel Webster, in Seventeen Hundred Eighty-two, the
second child of his mother. His father was then forty-three, and had
already raised one brood, but his mother was only in her twenties. It
seems that biting poverty and sore deprivation are about as good prenatal
influences as a soul can well ask, provided there abides with the mother a
noble discontent and a brave unrest.
However, it came near being overdone in Daniel Webster's case, for the
Mrs. Gamp who presided at his birth declared he could not live, and if he
did, would "allus be a no-'count."
But he made a brave fight for breath, and his crossness and peevishness
through the first years of his life were proof of vitality. He must have
been a queer toddler when he wore dresses, with his immense head and
deep-set black eyes and serious ways.
Being sickly, he was allowed to rule, and the big girls, his half-sisters,
humored him, and his mother did the same. They taught him his letters when
he was only a baby, and he himself said that he could not remember a time
when he could not read the Bible.
When he grew older he did not have to bring in wood and do the chores--he
was not strong enough, they said. Little Dan was of a like belief, and
encouraged the idea on every occasion. He roamed the woods, fished,
hunted, and read every scrap of print that came his way.
Being able to read any kind of print, and not being strong enough to work,
it very early was decided that he should have an education. It is rather a
humbling confession to make, but our worthy forefathers chiefly prized an
education for the fact that it caused the fortunate possessor to be exempt
from manual labor.
When Daniel was fourteen, a member of Congress came to see Ebenezer
Webster, to secure his influence at election. As the great man rode away,
Ebenezer said to his son: "Daniel, look there! he is educated and gets six
dollars a day in Congress for doing nothing; while I toil on this rocky
hillside and hardly see six dollars in a year. Daniel, get an education!"
"I'll do it," said Daniel, and throwing his arms around his father's neck,
burst into tears.
The village of Salisbury, where Webster was born, is fifteen miles north
of Concord. You leave the train at Boscowan, and there is a rickety old
stage, with a loquacious driver, that will take you to Salisbury, five
miles, for twenty-five cents. The country is one vast outcrop of granite;
and one can not but be filled with admiration, mingled with pity, for the
dwellers thereabouts who call these piles of rock "farms."
As we wound slowly around the hills, the church-spire of the village came
in sight; and soon we entered the one street of this sleepy, forgotten
place. I shook hands with the old stage-driver as he let me down in front
of the tavern; and as I went in search of the landlord, I thought of the
remark of the Chicago woman who, in riding from Warwick over to Stratford,
said, "Goodness me! why should a man like Shakespeare ever take it in his
head to live so far off!"
Salisbury has four hundred people. You can rent a house there for fifty
dollars a year, or should you prefer not to keep house, but board, you
can be accommodated at the tavern for three dollars a week. There are
various abandoned farms round about, and they are abandoned so thoroughly
that even Kate Sanborn would not have the courage to their adoption try.
The landlord of the hotel told me that were it not for the "Harvest
Dance," the dance on the Fourth of July, and the party at Christmas, he
could not keep the house open at all. Of course, all the inhabitants know
that Webster was born at Salisbury, but there is not so much local pride
in the matter as there is at East Aurora over the fact that one of her
former citizens is a performer in Barnum and Bailey's Circus.
The number of old men in one of these New England villages impresses folks
from the West as being curious. There are a full dozen men at Salisbury
between seventy-five and ninety, and all have positive ideas as to just
why Daniel Webster missed the Presidency. I found opinion curiously
divided as to Webster's ability; but all seemed to argue that when he left
New Hampshire and became a citizen of Massachusetts, he made a fatal
mistake.
* * * * *
The sacrifices that the mother and the father of Daniel Webster made, in
order that he might go to school, were very great. Every one in the family
had to do without things, that this one might thrive. The boy accepted it
all, quite as a matter of course, for from babyhood he had been protected
and petted. At the last we must admit that the man who towers above his
fellows is the one who has the power to make others work for him; a great
success is not possible in any other way.
Throughout his life Webster utilized the labor of others, and took it in a
high and imperious manner, as though it were his due. No doubt the way in
which his family lavished their gifts upon him fixed in his mind that
immoral slant of disregard for his financial obligations which clung to
him all through life.
There is a story told of his going to a county fair with his brother
Ezekiel, which shows the characters of these brothers better than a
chapter. The father had given each lad a dollar to spend. When the boys
got home Daniel was in gay spirits and Ezekiel was depressed. "Well, Dan,"
said the father, "did you spend your money?"
"Of course I did," replied Daniel.
"And, Zeke, what did you do with your dollar?"
"Loaned it to Dan," replied Ezekiel.
But there was a fine bond of affection between these two. Ezekiel was two
years older and, unfortunately for himself, was strong and well. He was
very early set to work, and I can not find that the thought of giving him
an education ever occurred to his parents, until after Daniel had
graduated at Dartmouth, and Dan and Zeke themselves then forced the issue.
In stature they were the same size: both were tall, finely formed, and in
youth slender. As they grew older they grew stouter, and the personal
presence of each was very imposing. Ezekiel was of light complexion and
ruddy; Daniel was very dark and sallow. I have met several men who knew
them both, and the best opinion is that Ezekiel was the stronger of the
two, mentally and morally.
Daniel was not a student, while Ezekiel was; and as a counselor Ezekiel
was the safer man. Up to the very week of Ezekiel's death Daniel advised
with him on all his important affairs. When Ezekiel fell dead in the
courtroom at Concord and the news was carried to his brother, it was a
blow that affected him more than the loss of wife or child. His friend and
counselor, the one man in life upon whom he leaned, was gone, and over his
own great, craglike face came that look of sorrow which death only
removed. But care and grief became this giant, as they do all who are
great enough to bear them.
It was two years after his brother's death that he made the speech which
is his masterpiece. And while the applause was ringing in his ears he
turned to Judge Story and said, "Oh, if Zeke were only here!" Who is
there who can not sympathize with that groan? We work for others; and to
win the applause of senates or nations, and not be able to know that Some
One is glad, takes all the sweetness out of victory.
"When I sing well, I want you to meet me in the wings of the stage, and
taking me in your aims, kiss my cheek, and whisper it was all right." When
Patti wrote this to her lover she voiced the universal need of a some one
who understands, to share the triumph of good work well done. The
nostalgia of life never seems so bitter as after moments of success; then
comes creeping in the thought that he who would have gloried in
this--knowing all the years of struggle and deprivations that made it
possible--is sleeping his long sleep.
In that speech of January Twenty-sixth, Eighteen Hundred Thirty, Webster
reached high-water mark. On that performance, more than any other, rests
his fame. He was forty-eight years old then. All the years of his career
he had been getting ready for that address. It was on the one theme that
he loved; on the theme he had studied most; on the only theme upon which
he ever spoke well--the greatness, the grandeur and the possibilities of
America. He spoke for four hours, and in his works the speech occupies
seventy close pages. He was at the zenith of his physical and intellectual
power, and that is as good a place as any to stop and view the man.
On account of his proud carriage, and the fine poise of his massive head,
he gave the impression of being a very large man; but he was just five
feet ten, and weighed a little less than two hundred. His manner was
grave, deliberate and dignified; and his sturdy face, furrowed with lines
of sorrow, made a profound impression upon all before he had spoken a
word. He had arrived at an age when the hot desire to succeed had passed.
For no man can attain the highest success until he has reached a point
where he does not care for it. In oratory the personal desire for victory
must be obliterated or the hearer will never award the palm.
Hayne was a very bright and able speaker. He had argued the right of a
State to dissent from, or nullify, a law passed by the House of
Representatives and Senate, making such law inoperative within its
borders. His claim was that the framers of the Constitution did not expect
or intend that a law could be passed that was binding on a State when the
people of that State did not wish it so. Mr. Hayne had the best end of the
argument, and the opinion is now general among jurists that his logic was
right and just, and that those who thought otherwise were wrong. New
England had practically nullified United States law in Eighteen Hundred
Twelve, the Hartford Convention of Eighteen Hundred Fourteen had declared
the right; Josiah Quincy had advocated the privilege of any State to
nullify an obnoxious law, quite as a matter of course.
The framers of the Constitution had merely said that we "had better" hang
together, not that we "must." But with the years had come a feeling that
the Nation's life was unsafe if any State should pull away.
Once, on the plains of Colorado, I was with a party when there was danger
of an attack from Indians. Two of the party wished to go back; but the
leader drew his revolver and threatened to shoot the first man who tried
to seek safety. "We must hang together or hang separately." Logically,
each man had the right to secede, and go off on his own account, but
expediency made a law and we declared that any man who tried to leave did
so at his peril.
To Webster was given the task of putting a new construction on the
Constitution, and to make of the Constitution a Law instead of a mere
compact. Webster's speech was not an argument; it was a plea. And so
mightily did he point out the dangers of separation; review the splendid
past; and prophesy the greatness of the future--a future that could only
be ours through absolute union and loyalty to the good of the whole--that
he won his cause.
After that speech, if Calhoun had allowed South Carolina to nullify a
United States law, President Jackson would have made good his threat and
hanged both him and Hayne on one tree, and the people would have approved
the act. But Webster did not get the case quashed: he got only a
postponement. In Eighteen Hundred Sixty, South Carolina moved the case
again; she opened the argument in another way this time, and a million
lives were required, and millions upon millions in treasure expended to
put a construction on the Constitution that the framers did not intend;
but which was necessary in order that the Nation might exist.
In the battle of Bull Run, almost the first battle of the war, fell
Colonel Fletcher Webster, the only surviving son of Daniel Webster, and
with him died the name and race.
* * * * *
The cunning of Webster's intellect was not creative. In his argument there
is little ingenuity; but he had the power of taking an old truth and
presenting it in a way that moved men to tears. When aroused, all he knew
was within his reach; he had the faculty of getting all his goods in the
front window. And he himself confessed that he often pushed out a masked
battery, when behind there was not a single gun.
Under the spell of the orator an audience becomes of one mind: the dullest
intellect is more alert than usual and the most discerning a little less
so. Cheap wit will then often pass for brilliancy, and platitude for
wisdom. We roar over the jokes we have known since childhood, and cry
"Hear, hear!" when the great man with upraised hands and fire in his
glance declares that twice two is four.
Oratory is hypnotism practised on a large scale. Through oratory ideas are
acquired by induction.
Webster was a lawyer; and he was not above resorting to any trick or
device that could move the emotions or passions of judge and jury to a
prejudice favorable to his side. This was very clearly brought out when he
undertook to break the will of Stephen Girard.
Girard was a freethinker, and in leaving money to found a college devised
that no preacher or priest should have anything to do with its management.
The question at issue was, "Is a bequest for founding a college a
charitable bequest?" If so, then the will must stand. But if the bequest
were merely a scheme to deprive the legal heirs of their rights--diverting
the funds from them for whimsical and personal reasons--then the will
should be broken. Mr. Webster made the plea that there was only one kind
of charity, namely, Christian charity. Girard was not a Christian, for he
had publicly affronted the Christian religion by providing that no
minister should teach in his school. Mr. Webster spoke for three hours
with many fine bursts of tearful eloquence in support of the Christian
faith, reviewing its triumphs and denouncing its foes.
The argument was carried outside of the realm of law into the domain of
passion and prejudice.
The court took time for the tumult to subside, and then very quietly
decided against Webster, sustaining the will. The college building was
erected and stands today, the finest specimen of purely Greek architecture
in America; and the good that Girard College has done and is now doing is
the priceless heritage of our entire country.
One of Webster's first greatest speeches was before the United States
Supreme Court in the Dartmouth College case. Here he defended the cause of
education with that grave and wonderful weight of argument of which he was
master. In the Girard College case, eighteen years after, he reversed his
logic, and touched with rare skill on the dangers of a too-liberal
education.
No man now is quite so daring as to claim that Webster was a Christian.
Neither was he a freethinker. He inherited his religious views from his
parents, and never considered them enough to change. He simply viewed
religion as a part of the fabric of government, giving sturdiness and
safety to established order. His own spiritual acreage was left absolutely
untilled. His services were for sale; and so plastic were his convictions
that once having espoused a cause he was sure it was right. Doubtless it
is self-interest, as Herbert Spencer says, that makes the world go round.
And thus does sincerity of belief resolve itself into which side will pay
most. This question being settled, reasons are as plentiful as
blackberries, and are supplied in quantities proportionate in size to the
retainer.
John Randolph once touched the quick by saying, "If Daniel Webster was
employed on a case and he had partially lost faith in it, his belief in
his client's rights could always be refreshed and his zeal renewed by a
check."
Webster had every possible qualification that is required to make the
great orator. All those who heard him speak, when telling of it, begin by
relating how he looked. He worked the dignity and impressiveness of his
Jovelike presence to its furthest limit, and when once thoroughly awake
was in possession of his entire armament.
No other American has been able to speak with a like degree of
effectiveness; and his name deserves to rank, and will rank, with the
names of Burke, Chatham, Sheridan and Pitt. The case has been tried, the
verdict is in and recorded on the pages of history. There can be no
retrial, for Webster is dead, and his power died thirty years before his
form was laid to rest at Marshfield by the side of his children and the
wife of his youth.
Oratory is the lowest of the sublime arts. The extent of its influence
will ever be a vexed question. Its result depends on the mood and
temperament of the hearer. But there are men who are not ripe for treason
and conspiracy, to whom even music makes small appeal. Yet music can be
recorded, entrusted to an interpreter yet unborn, and lodge its appeal
with posterity. Literature never dies: it dedicates itself to Time. For
the printed page is reproduced ten thousand times ten thousand times, and
besides, lives as did the Homeric poems, passed on from generation to
generation by word of mouth. Were every book containing Shakespeare's
plays burned this night, tomorrow they could be rewritten by those who
know their every word.
With the passing years the painter's colors fade; time rots his canvas;
the marble is dragged from its pedestal and exists in fragments from which
we resurrect a nation's life; but oratory dies on the air and exists only
as a memory in the minds of those who can not translate, and then as
hearsay. So much for the art itself; but the influence of that art is
another thing.
He who influences the beliefs and opinions of men influences all other men
that live after. For influence, like matter, can not be destroyed.
In many ways, Webster lacked the inward steadfastness that his face and
frame betokened; but on one theme he was sound to the inmost core. He
believed in America's greatness and the grandeur of America's mission.
Into the minds of countless men he infused his own splendid patriotism.
From his first speech at Hanover when eighteen years old, to his last when
nearly seventy, he fired the hearts of men with the love of native land.
And how much the growing greatness of our country is due to the magic of
his words and the eloquence of his inspired presence no man can compute.
The passion of Webster's life is well mirrored in that burning passage:
"When mine eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in
heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments
of a once glorious Union: on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent:
on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal
blood. Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the
gorgeous ensign of the Republic, now known and honored throughout the
earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their
original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, or a single star
obscured, bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as 'What
is all this worth?' nor those other words of delusion and folly, 'Liberty
first and Union afterwards'; but everywhere, spread all over in characters
of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the
sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that
other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, 'Liberty and Union,
now and forever, one and inseparable.'"